


to wish impossible things

by midsommur



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: F/M, orig posted on my tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27035515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midsommur/pseuds/midsommur
Summary: no amount of assurances from her lips would ever convince him that she was fine. he would have to guarantee it himself.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	to wish impossible things

It was difficult in the beginning. In time, he would grow to get used to it, to mask his anger, his irreverent rage at the sight of the one he loved most being in harm’s way, at his own fault, his own negligence. What wouldn’t change would be his guilt; he would always find himself to blame for these victimless crimes. Ever the martyr.

For now, though, it was impossible—to hide the rage. He was close to seething, all he could see was the knife and her throat and the serrated edge of it digging into her skin, a line of red, real and there, threatening to spill her blood.

His name is borderline on her lips, about to fall, a silent plea. She wants him, needs to call for him, Bruce, not Batman. She craves him and his soft touches, his bare, pale face and endless blue eyes—not the thick leather of his suit, hard and persistent and protecting, nor the unrecognizable white lenses he hid behind. She always had, and always would, choose Bruce. It was no question, with no chance to ponder. It had always been him.

But it’s not who she gets.

In turn, she gets the vigilante, the Bat, the Dark Knight of Gotham barreling towards the shadowy figure of a man behind her. His speed is all too quick, that she herself can barely register the blade off her throat and pressure off her spine that was previously holding her still.

It all happens very quickly.

She doesn’t have a vague idea of what to do besides stand and listen as Batman pummels the criminal into the ground, driving his fist into him until he’s beaten bloody. She doesn’t have to look to know this—this sounds of knuckles crunching against bone and flesh is enough.

It is only until afterwards, when she is safe in the seat beside him, that he compartmentalizes all the details, snapshots that will haunt him for nights to come. Her tearstained cheeks streaked black with wet makeup. Her nails dug deep into the forearm of the man that held her in a chokehold. Her eyebrows drawn up, pinched in the center of her forehead, marked in a permanent expression of utter panic.

Her eyes locked on his. How they trembled.

God, how she trembled. Even know, wrapped up in the cape he’d detached from his suit for her to warm herself up and ground herself in.

He knows she needs a distraction, anything to occupy her busy mind. With any other ordinary person he had ever saved in the past, these things came easier to him. How to attend to the victim, the right and wrong thing to say. With her, it’s different. The line between the hero and the damsel, the imperiled victim and her savior, it gets fuzzy. Blurred. They’ve crossed it back and forth so many times that it’s near nonexistent by now.

It’s funny. It’s laughable. He doesn’t know who he’s meant to be right now, which mask he’s meant to wear.

He spares a glance at her in the side passenger seat as they speed off through the night in the batmobile. Her cheek is pressed against the tinted windows, and her eyes droop as she fights off exhaustion. Carefully, he moves a hand to her thigh.

At the sudden touch, she looks off at Bruce beside her. He’s forgone the cowl, now, his hair a clear sign that he had been wearing it for quite a long time already. His eyes are lined with thick black paint, smudged but still perfect somehow, even now. He’d make anything seem perfect, this dreadfully handsome man.

She knows he’s about to ask, so she answers before he can prompt the question to her. “I’m fine, Bruce.”

His lips are pursed into a tight line as he nods. Discrediting her would only frustrate her. He knows that she very much isn’t, but if that’s what she wanted to be, then she was. Or she would be. It was him that needed to be convinced of that much.

Yet, still, it’s scarring. He closes his eyes and sees this frightened girl, his frightened girl, and all he wants to do is take it away. No amount of assurances from her lips would ever convince him that she was fine. He would have to guarantee it himself.

**

There’s something very charming in all his dedicated devotion to protecting her. Especially in moments like these, where she just wants to be with him, graced by his presence, when he’s feeling particularly generous.

(He was always generous, when it came to her. Sometimes, though, like tonight, more than others.)

As she’d told him in the car, she really was fine. The cut on her throat was shallow, despite it stinging like hell while he cleaned it for her. It was moreso emotional distress that they both were suffering from—him for witnessing it and her for actually living it. It felt equally impactful for the both of them, what with the two being so entwined with one another, the thought of one being in such a grave deal of danger meaning equal suffering for the other. Such was life. He cleans her wound all the same; an ironic contradiction to any other night, where he was on the receiving end of this sort of treatment.

Bruce tapes a wad of gauze to her neck, albeit unnecessarily (“It is not that deep, I really could just go with a band-aid and be done with it,”) and carries her off into their bedroom. She doesn’t protest her perfectly capable motor functions, and instead relaxes into the cradle of his arms, tucks her face into his neck, and smiles.

Falling against plush pillows and silk sheets, she reaches her arms out for him and whines when he isn’t immediately at her side again. “Bruce,” she calls, hands outstretched as she beckons him closer.

“Just a second,” he responds, trying to make quick work of taking off his armor. Usually she would assist him through the tribulations of so many layers of thick, protective material, but he wouldn’t dare bother her in her current state. Not for fear that she would deny helping him, but because he knew she would jump at the opportunity to do so, when he knew what she truly needed was rest.

Surprisingly, he’s out of the suit quick. What’s even more surprising is how he finds her as he leaves the closet, sat up in bed, wide-eyed and cross-legged.

“Hey,” he frowns, making his way over to her. “Didn’t I tell you to go to sleep?”

“No,” she answers, “You must’ve thought it. M’not tired.”

“You are tired,” he tells her, smoothing down her hair. She leans into his touch and watches his eyes trail down the path his hand finds, moving down her head, over to her neck. She winces when he touches the dressed wound. “You are very tired.”

“Can’t hypnotize me, Bruce, I’m immune to your little tricks.”

He scoffs, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Right. Lay down.”

“I said I’m not—”

“I didn’t say sleep, I said lay down.”

There’s a hint of finality to his tone, the sort that makes her fall silent. Her back hits the pillows once again, staring at him curiously.

With something that resembles a grin, Bruce takes hold of her ankle, his cold hand wrapped firm around her, thumb pressed against bone. He then, carefully, slowly, tugs her legs apart. She reaches for a pillow to smother herself with, already expecting what’s to come.

The gesture makes him laugh internally—her silly self-awareness of the situation. There was no particular reason for her to hide her sounds, in fact, he truly did like to hear them. But the way she knew she’d already be making them, so much so that she’d need to silence herself—that was good, too.

His hands trail up her endless legs as he makes his way up to her, pressing kisses along the expanse of her skin. With one quick look up at her, he already finds her blushing with anticipation.

“Come on,” he whispers, rasps against her thigh. “Let me make you feel good.”

She nods. It’s really all she can do.

In that instant, he’s on her again, lips and teeth and tongue. She moans wantonly at the feeling, his expert ministrations and practiced motions. He laps at her center with urgency, this dire unprecedented need to make her feel good, only good, nothing but. She’s acutely sensitive, which only makes it all the better as he nips at her skin.

“So good,” she tells him brokenly, her voice wavering. She can practically feel him smile.

And he does—because this is what he’s meant to do. To fix her, mend her back together and help her to forget the bad things. For all that she did, no, does, for him. For shouldering his trauma and taking on his pain, allowing herself to be used as a crutch for him whenever need be. She’d do anything, she’d do it all for him, and so he would do the same for her.

His lips and tongue work wondrously together; he truly does make quick work of turning her into a sputtering mess. Her chest rises and falls incredulously fast as he adds a finger to the juncture, and then another, angling and curling them just right until she’s hit with a sudden, insurmountable wave of pleasure that only Bruce could ever bring to her. When he moves back up to kiss her, to ride her through it all, his lips are wet. She kisses him all the same.

It makes his heart swell, the way their fervent passion still exists and is ever-present even in dreadful moments. Tied together and ever in unison. When one falters and dips below, the other dredges them back up maintaining each other perfectly. And yes, Bruce can admit that more often than not, she is the one that holds him up, guides him through the darkness and lights his path. Shows him the good and reminds him that he’s not alone, not if he doesn’t want to be. Sews him up and stitches him whole. It’s why he’s more than happy to do the same for her, so thoroughly enthusiastic to do it. To repay her for all the endless things she does for him. To thank her before it’s too late. To show her before she’s gone, before another danger threatens to take her, rip her from him again.

So he holds her like this, safe, close to his chest, cocooning her into his cold arms. Enrapturing her in these ways, taking and giving more than he has ever had. It’s in these ways that he can remember what it feels like to have her alive. That she isn’t some facade, some illusion, some trick that’s being played on him. She’s this viable thing, this living, breathing girl that he holds in his hands, and could die any second, but for now, she won’t. In his grasp, under his watchful eye and protective essence, she would be okay.


End file.
